


Doing Dirt

by Dirty_Corza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, F/M, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dirty_Corza/pseuds/Dirty_Corza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew the look in Mary's eyes so well, the one that accused him of not finding her enough for him. If she knew what sort of comfort Sherlock gave him, well, he wasn't about to let her see that side of him. Sherlock knew just where to take him, where to go where he wouldn't risk hurting her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing Dirt

Mary would probably be upset at him when he got home. Not upset at him, exactly, but he knew how she got when he went to Sherlock for comfort after a long day at work. He knew the look in her eyes so well, the one that accused him of not finding her enough for him. If she knew what sort of comfort Sherlock gave him, well, he wasn't about to let her see that side of him. Sherlock knew just where to take him, where to go where he wouldn't risk hurting her; sweet, dear, wonderful Mary.

It would never start with sex. It would start with eyes meeting, a silent conversation where Sherlock deduced him, and then they'd be off, over rooftops, through alleys, until they got to an abandoned building and a makeshift ring. Sherlock would take his coat and shirt, they'd share a grin, then he'd enter the ring. He knew Sherlock would make money off him, he always did, though how the underground fighting rings didn't share word about the unassuming doctor who had yet to lose a fight was beyond him.

It was better that way. Better to have them think he was just an aging man with a scarred shoulder, so clearly past his prime. It allowed him to have a few warm up rounds with the younger men, let him show off his skills before the seasoned fighters joined in. Those were the fights he came for. The rules were simple, no head shots, no weapons, and try to avoid breaking bones. They were rules he reveled in. No obvious marks to explain away at work, no emergency room visits, and usually not too many bruises to explain away to Mary.

Five bouts, that was all Sherlock ever let them stick around for, keeping an eye out for when John was being worn out, when someone might get the better of him. Which was good for John's body, just as it was good for their pocketbooks. Then they'd be off again, going through alleys until his shirt was secured on him once more, and then Sherlock would flag down a cab to take them the rest of the way to Baker Street. 

John almost felt guilty about this end to his nights, almost wished he could refuse the way Sherlock gave his body exactly what he needed. More than that, though, he wished he felt guilty about it, the way he let Sherlock play his body like an instrument. As it was, he reveled in it, glad for the final release of the adrenaline. 

Once, only once, John had gone home instead of joining Sherlock after. Mary hadn't been able to mask the fear in her eyes, and John knew he couldn't do that to her, couldn't subject her to this, the ferocity that left more bruises on his battered form, that marred Sherlock's pale skin with finger shaped bruises when he held on too tightly. The passion that left scratches down Sherlock's back, reminders of how much, on nights like this, he craved Sherlock owning him.

John never told Mary about the fighting rings, and he never lied to her when she asked if Sherlock had touched him, had stripped him bare and had him. He could tell she didn't approve of the bruises. He could see it in her eyes the way she didn't understand how he could crave that violence. She never asked him to stop, though. Never asked him to leave her, or choose between her gentle love and Sherlock's brash affections. Those moments made him love her more, each time she offered him a small smile, or those blessed moments when the next night found him spread out beneath her as her lips followed the trail of bruises, soothing his wounds and his trembling soul.

"Mine." She'd whisper into the darkness around them. "You'll always be mine." She never spoke it as a question, but John always felt the need to answer her.

"Yours. First and foremost, forever and always. Yours."


End file.
